


Dick Grayson, Bipolar II - Rapid Cycling

by MaurianasRavenholdt



Series: BatFamily DSM-V [1]
Category: Batfamily - Fandom, Batman - All Media Types, Dick Grayson - Fandom, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Gen, Mental Illness, PTSD, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaurianasRavenholdt/pseuds/MaurianasRavenholdt
Summary: Part 1 of BatFamily DSM-V, a series  of one-shot character portraits detailing the struggles with mental illness and addiction that members of the ‘Family’ deal with on a day to day basis.“This won’t last. It never does. A few days, tops. Then you’ll be up again. Better. Flying high.But that was a problem, too. Wasn’t it?”





	Dick Grayson, Bipolar II - Rapid Cycling

**Author's Note:**

> These one-shots are land mines of triggers. This one deals with mental illness, hypomania, depression, and suicidal ideation, as well as relationships with a toxic parent. If you find any additional triggers, please let me know and I will tag them immediately.
> 
> Also - I am not a psychiatrist, just a long time sufferer of multiple  
Mental illnesses. Some details are dramatized for effect

Dick Grayson, Bipolar II - Rapid Cycling, C-PTSD

——-

_ “And sometimes when you're on _

_You're really fucking on_

_ And your friends, they sing along and they love you _

_But the lows are so extreme That the good seems fucking cheap _

_And it teases you for weeks in its absence_ _“_

_ \- A Better Son/Daughter by Rilo Kiley_

——-

Each step up the metal fire escape was like trudging through tar. His feet seemed to stick to the treads, and he could feel his muscles trembling with the effort of just one more. Then one more. And another.

_Come on. Come on._

Sometimes that helped. The voice urging him along. More often than not, it was cruel. Cutting.

_Useless. Fucking useless. They’re just -stairs- boy wonder, and you can’t even manage that._

**There** it was. Shouting over the incessant ear worms and self-narration. The one constant in all of this. Self-loathing.

Finally, he made it to the window, and tugged up on the frame before slipping into the darkened apartment. Slowly, too slowly, he stripped off his Nightwing suit and left it in a puddle on the floor.

_Leave it in plain sight, huh? Moron. Stupid. Careless._

The voice in his mind was right. It usually was, despite the berating and callous tone. But in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Inch by agonizing inch, he made his way to the sofa, flopped down, and curled up under a blanket.

Rationality crept in, above the din echoing inside his brain.

_This won’t last. It never does. A few days, tops. Then you’ll be up again. Better. Flying high. _

But that was a problem, too. Wasn’t it? A few days down, hunkered in his apartment under the guise of being engrossed in some imaginary case, only to swing rapidly back to the days of sleepless energy, endless wit, a blur of partners walking into and out of his bedroom like it had a revolving door.

**That** was Dick the Daredevil. The guy who jumped off tall buildings and waited until the last possible minute before shooting his grappling gun. Lovable. Affable. Goofy.

Reckless.

He liked himself a little too much when he was up. Never wanted it to end. Not that it was all sunshine and comedy. Dick the Daredevil had an infamous temper. He was an irascible hothead in the wrong circumstances. Spinning out and pushing away friends with cutting remarks and undeserved rage.

But it would end. It always did. And then he would retreat, lose jobs, fall into the dark well of his own psyche. That was Dick the Brooder. The one everyone accused of being a bit too much like Batman. They thought he was engrossed in his work.

But the truth was starkly different. As anyone would attest if they saw him right now, passive and blank, knees drawn up near his chest, too empty to even cry.

_What set it off this time? Did you see something too sad for your delicate sensibilities? Some hero you are. Pathetic. Worthless._

He should call someone. He knew he should call someone. Roy, Tim, hell - even Jason. Someone to make the vicious stream of insults in his brain seem just a little quieter.

_They won’t come. Why would they? How many lies have you spun? Why would they care about a shitty friend like you? You know you’d be better off dead, right?_

That old gem. When he was younger, the allure of death was stronger, more acute. Now it was obnoxious, a mosquito bite that wouldn’t stop itching. He was too tired to do anything anyway. In spite of his best efforts, exhaustion washed over him and he fell asleep.

** ** ** ** **

Four days. For four days he barely moved, barely ate, only answered the most urgent calls and texts.

_Yes, I’m alive. No, I haven’t been kidnapped. I’m working._

And then the weights lifted off his chest. The voice in his mind shifted - upbeat, happy.

_First stop. Off the couch. Into the shower_.

Groaning a bit as sore muscles protested, he sat up. Rubbed his face a bit. Hopped off the sofa and into the bathroom. He examined his stubble in the mirror.

_Shower. Then shave._

He hummed as the water heated up, started singing under the stream, reveling in the acoustics.

_Today is going to be a good day._

A few hours later, clean, shaved, and fed, he hopped onto his motorcycle and rocketed off to the manor. It was high time he checked in, showed them he was ok. Made sure they weren’t onto him. Because if Bruce suspected for an instant that he was struggling…

**That** was not a conversation he wanted to have. Ever.

And he’d never have to. Because he was an excellent actor. A practiced liar. All part of the performance.

He parked his bike and trotted inside, humming to himself and waving jovially at a smiling Alfred.

_Today is going to be a very good day_

Behind the clock, down the stairs, into the cave. He practically jumped into his suit before sidling up to a Brooding Batman staring at the computer.

“Whatcha got?”

Batman looked up at him with an expression that said, ‘I’ve had far too little sleep to deal with a **chipper** Dick Grayson’ and then pointed to the screen. “Surveillance. Smugglers are bringing in large shipments of plastic explosive tonight. I want to know who’s buying, and why.”

“I can have boots on the ground, if you want? That way we get your intel and stop them in a single play?” He was eager to get out of the stifling cave and **move**. While Batman considered his proposal, Dick pulled himself into a one-armed handstand on a nearby table.

_Just because **he’s** as slow as molasses doesn’t mean you have to be._

“Fine,” Batman relented, “China Docks. You move on **my** signal, and not a moment before. Understood?”

“You got it, B!” The reply came on the back of a rather impressive forward roll and dismount.

He jogged over to a motorcycle, hopped on with a smile, and set off.

** ** ** ** **

“I don’t think it’s happening tonight, B. It’s been hours with no movement. Maybe your intel was wrong?” Nightwing shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to coax numbing limbs back to life.

“No,” Batman replied through the com-link, “It’s tonight.”

Another agonizing hour later, and there was **finally** activity. But it wasn’t just Semtex they were moving.

It was kids, too.

Nightwing nearly snarled, barely holding back the rolling anger building in his muscles. “B, we have a situation…”

“I see it. Stay put, Nightwing. I’m on my way.” Batman’s order only stoked Dick’s growing rage.

_’Stay put’? While terrified kids are in danger? And risk losing them? No. Take the traffickers down **now!**_

On impulse and instinct, he leaped from  
his perch on a derelict water tower and landed on the ground below, rolling with the inertia.

_Six. No, seven guys. Each armed. Standard capacity magazine. Fifteen rounds a pop. Between them, 105 rounds. Assuming nobody is carrying a backup._

He pulled the first goon into the shadows, dropping him with a blow to the neck, then gagging and restraining him.

_ Six left. Ninety shots in play. _

Despite the dark, and the fog rolling in off the water, the world seemed unnaturally acute, sharp. Nightwing’s eyes darted between the remaining guards, strategizing.

The next two mooks also went down without a fight.

_Three down, four to go. Too easy._

The voice spoke too soon. An enforcer grabbed a boy and held him at gunpoint. “I know you’re out there, Bats. Come on out, nice and slow, or the kid gets it.”

Nightwing stepped out of the shadows, still smiling. “ ‘The kid gets it’? Are you a walking cliche? Do they teach that line in Bad Guy School?”

The man pulled the gun away from the boys head and pointed it at Nightwing.

_That’s right. Focus over here. Drop the kid. Come at me. Predictable._

The trafficker rushed Nightwing, firing his gun.

_Handspring, backflip, gainer off the shipping crate, layout, kick to the head. And he’s down! Three to go. Forty-five slugs to worry about._

He rolled forward to grab the next one, but he’d already taken off, abandoning the truck of kids and jumping into the cab of the trailer filled with plastique, peeling out. The other two grabbed onto the back as the tires screeched, firing wildly into the darkness.

As quickly as it started, it was over. Nightwing tended to the kids, checking them over for any urgent injuries. He heard footfalls in the shadows behind him.

“What. Happened.” Batman’s terse whisper belied the rage Dick knew lay beneath.

“The kids were in danger. They were going to move them, I had to…” Nightwing stepped into the shadows too, attempting to find some semblance of privacy for the dressing down he knew was coming.

“I told you to stay put! Now we have no buyer, and two tons of explosive gone! Go back to the cave. We’ll discuss this**later**.” Batman kept his voice hushed, but the growl was still evident, still dragged fear out of Dick’s chest and into his throat.

_Not fear. You're not afraid of him. You’re **pissed**. Where does he get off, questioning your risk assessment?_

With a final, waspish glare, Nightwing turned on his heel and stormed off.

** ** ** ** **

“I saved those kids! Not you! God knows what would have happened to them! This is about more than your intel!” Yelling at Bruce felt good. A release.

They didn’t fight often. Dick tried to talk to Bruce when he wasn’t ‘Dick the Brooder’ or ‘Dick the Daredevil’. The rare version of himself that was somewhere in the middle. Steadfast, loyal. The guy trying to compensate for the fuckups of the other two.

But today, ‘Dick the Good Son’ was nowhere to be found. And ‘Dick the Daredevil’ was gunning for a brawl.

Bruce snarled and stepped close, grabbing Dick’s face, forcing eye contact. “Those explosives have the potential to kill **thousands** more if they find their way into the wrong hands. You didn’t **think**, Dick.”

Dick rubbed his jaw after Bruce released it and turned away, trying not to think about the bruises that would blossom later. Fingerprint reminders for ‘the Brooder’ to dwell on, for the voice to use against him like poison****. ** **

_He’s treating you like a child. Don’t let him walk away from you._

“We’re not done here, Bruce!” He grabbed his mentors shoulder and dug in his fingertips.

Swiveling with alarming speed, Bruce swung his fist, connecting with Dick’s mouth and sending him to the floor. “Yes. We are.”

_You couldn’t just talk to him, could you. Worthless. Pathetic. Look what your temper got you._

Dick felt the crash washing over him, draining the tension from his muscles, and he sat on the floor in a pool of despair.

_Get up. Don’t let him see you like this. Don’t you know what he’d say? If he knew how w_ _eak you were? You’re already a disappointment. Imagine how much worse it would be._

He pulled himself up to his feet as Bruce stalked away and sat down at the computer with his back to Dick.

_You're such an embarrassment he can’t even look at you. Just leave. Get home. You can’t fuck things up more if you’re alone._

Wordlessly, he stripped off his suit. But his hands didn’t seem real, like  
They weren’t connected somehow. They dressed him in his civvies. Then he trudged up the stairs to the manor, wiping the blood from his lips.

_Come on. Come on. Walk. Climb. Don’t be so goddamn lazy._

He didn’t go and find Alfred to say goodbye. He couldn’t bear it. The questions he’d ask. The lies Dick would have to tell. Again.

_I’m fine. Just a rough night. Just a little tired._

_Liar. Liar. Liar. _

He climbed on his motorcycle and drove back to his apartment, doing his best to not think about the allure of oncoming traffic.

_It won’t last. It never does. Just a few days down and you’ll be better again. Flying high._


End file.
